


The Lotus Eaters

by Laine



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Sexual Content, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-29
Updated: 2012-03-29
Packaged: 2017-11-02 16:02:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/370812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laine/pseuds/Laine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After helping Sansa escape from the Vale, Jaime boards them both on a ship headed eastward.  They arrive in the hedonistic pleasure-capital of Lys, where the unlikely pair strives to remember and to forget.</p><p>Originally written for the <a href="http://mockyrfears.livejournal.com/2421.html">Game of Thrones Kink Meme</a> on LiveJournal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Lotus Eaters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There will be a time for remembering, but Sansa would prefer to simply forget. 
> 
> The original prompt was: Jaime/Sansa; he helps her escape the Vale, and they go to the Free Cities.

_The Free Cities- aptly named, indeed._ Sansa steps onto the terrace of the open-air pavilion, the sun warm on her bare arms and the gentle breeze teasing at the wisps of hair hanging loose around her face. _Free....free._

Seduction is the Lyseni stock and trade, and Sansa finds herself seduced almost instantly. The air, thick and warm, tastes of clove and jasmine and myrrh and orange, and the sounds of soft laughs and ecstatic sighs cling and linger and meld into a melodious, enchanting hum. As she weaves her way through the market, hips swaying in insouciant circles (for that is the way here, it’s what all the women do), she steals a glance across the water- the coast of Westeros appears in the very far distance, just an ugly, jagged black line interrupting the blue of the sea and the blue of the sky.

The sight restores her to reality, and she clasps her hand over the little dagger girded at her thigh, the blade still stained with the blood of... 

She shakes her head- her newly-dyed red hair whips against her cheeks- and forces the thought down. She can put the past away, lock it somewhere deep inside; she’s proven herself capable of that much. 

A pair of courtesans pass by, escorted by two silver-haired merchants. Sansa watches as one of the women smiles a secret sort of smile- Sansa knows it well, for Alayne was an expert- and places her hand on her companion’s arm, laughing a low, knowing laugh; an erudite laugh, a cavalier laugh.

Sansa tosses her hair again and practices the laugh, her thoughts ringing through her head in a similarly ironic tone-

_Petyr is dead. Sweetrobin is dead. My family is dead._

_Westeros is dead._

She waits for the sting, and when it does not come, she sighs with relief and continues on her way.

A flash of violet-red catches her eye, and she approaches a fruit stand and purchases a ripe, beautiful pomegranate, heavy and swollen with juice. As she proceeds toward the pavilion, she feels the eyes roaming over her body- she’s grown quite accustomed to it now. She knows what they believe her to be, and she’s almost too amused to be offended. In her wispy, clinging gown, arms bare save a few loose golden bracelets, her hair streaming wild down her back and over her shoulders, she certainly looks the part of a pleasure slave. 

For one alarming, fleeting moment, Sansa considers what her mother would say if she could see her now. 

She steps into the pavilion and slips off her sandals, the carpets soft beneath her feet. 

(The place reeks of money- somehow there is always money- Lannisters shit gold, after all, isn’t that what they say?)

Jaime has returned home before her, and he reclines on the divan, a carafe of herbed wine on the low table beside him. He wears a loose silk tunic, open nearly to his navel, and a pair of trousers in the same material, with a dagger much like her own fastened at his waistband. He smiles up at her in greeting- at first glance, it’s a lazy, leonine smile, but she quickly notices the darkness in his eyes. She knows what he’s spent his day doing, for whom he’s been searching- a little twinge of guilt pricks at her chest ( _Tyrion’s my husband, I should probably be helping to look for him..._ ), but she pushes it away, as she does with all unpleasantries. 

She slices the pomegranate in two and moves to sit beside Jaime on the divan, offering him half of the fruit. They sip the potent wine and eat the plump seeds, exchanging a word or a jape here and there, but they prefer to be quiet together on these languid afternoons. It’s so easy to give in here, so easy to become dizzy with the heavy, fragrant air and the warmth, to give the body what it wants and leave the brain behind.

When he finally places his wine glass down and takes her in his arms, she comes to him eagerly- _we live as Lyseni now; he provides for me, and I for him._ She tastes fruit and spices on his lips and tongue, and she slides her hands into his tunic and over his warm, broad chest. Every movement is smooth and slow- she lies back and spreads her legs for him, but he is in no haste. First, there are open-mouthed kisses on her throat, a left hand working to pull her diaphanous dress away, the tickle of stubble on her skin as he lazily suckles her breasts.

His hand moves beneath her skirt and strokes between her thighs, and she begins to shift her hips in anticipation- but then a clattering of metal on the floor, and they both look down. Her dagger has slipped from the strap she wears on her thigh, and the blade, crusted with Petyr Baelish’s blood, gleams in the mid-afternoon sunlight.

The sight is jarring and upsetting, but Sansa prepares to cope as usual- Jaime, however, has yet to hone the skill. He moves away from her and sits upright on the divan, propping his elbows on his knees and dropping his head into his hands, both good and gold. _He provides for me, I provide for him,_ she thinks as her hand moves in rhythmic circles over his back, her chin resting on his shoulder. He does not push her aside, a sign that she finds encouraging. _Westeros is dead,_ she wants to tell him, but she doubts that he’ll find any comfort in the idea.

Instead, she inches closer and closer, peppering soft kisses over his neck and jaw, nibbling on his earlobe, straddling one thigh and rocking herself against the hard muscles until she releases little moans of pleasure. He turns his head to look at her, and she sees the hunger reappearing in his emerald-colored eyes- her pale arms twine around his neck, and she kisses him deeply, kisses him until he lowers her back down into the pillows and lies between her legs again.

There will be a time for remembering- as loathe as she is to admit it, Sansa certainly understands that reality. But as she stretches her foot down to kick the dagger under the divan before wrapping her legs around Jaime’s waist, she thinks of how much more pleasant it would be to simply forget.


	2. Devouring Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _It isn't forever,_ he tells her again and again. For she must be reminded...they both must be reminded. 
> 
> Original prompt was: Jaime/Sansa; Jaime spanks Sansa.

“I’m only playing,” she laughs with an airy toss of the head, shifting until her arms drape over his shoulders. 

It’s what she always says when he tries to remind her, tries to confront her with the truth. _This isn’t forever_ , he tells her, again and again and again. When they find Tyrion, when the bounty on her head is forgotten, then they’ll go back. This is only a respite, a haven, a place to hide.

“I’m only playing” might be more convincing if he didn’t remember so acutely, if he could forget “Alayne Stone”, if he could forget the blankness in her eyes when she stood over Baelish’s bleeding corpse, if he could forget how long it took her to respond when he first addressed her as “Sansa”. Her past, her personality hangs about her in rags and shards, all delicate and precarious and so, so fragile. 

Yes. She must be reminded. This isn’t forever, this isn’t forever-

But when she settles herself in his lap and strokes her fingers through his hair, her full lips softly smiling, pink and warm and inviting, he finds himself wondering who he’s really trying to convince.

For he indulges her far too much; he sees that now. He lets her swan about Uncle Gerion’s pavilion with only a few thin swaths of fabric to cover her, he lets her venture out to the markets with her loose hair and Eastern jewelry, he lets her spend money on frivolous luxuries-

And he lets her kneel before him and wash his feet with rose water before unlacing his breeches and taking him in her mouth. He lets her push him back into his mattress and ride him, the sea breezes wafting through the open windows and blowing her russet hair in all directions. And he lets her wake up in his arms, her lips pressed to his pulse point, the scent of perfume and incense and _Sansa_ clinging to his bedsheets.

(When he moves inside her, he finds himself wondering if this is what it feels like for her, to flit between one self and another, to let the waters become so muddy that reality itself is no longer a constant. _A dangerous game,_ he thinks.)

She’s in particularly high spirits tonight; she steps in the doorway and kicks off her sandals, all but twirling her way into the pavilion. Jaime knows that she’s spent the day in the city center, and he recognizes the gleam in her eyes; the Lyseni have no care for discretion, and a casual walk through the marketplace will turn into a voyeuristic lesson in hedonism, whether one likes it or not. 

She wraps her arms around his waist, fingertips cool against his bare skin, and he opens his mouth to ask her what she’s learned today. But instead, he hitches his breath as she kisses a path over the defined muscles in his chest, pausing to lave her tongue over a nipple. 

“Gods, you’re a wicked little minx,” he whispers, and she lifts her head just long enough to give him an oddly knowing smile. His left hand brushes her hair behind her shoulder, and he pulls the ties of her dress until the light material falls away-

Jaime feels his jaw set when he sweeps his gaze over her breasts and identifies the cause of her light, wanton mood. A small ivory ring, intricately carved, encloses her right nipple. He’s seen such things before on the pleasure slaves and concubines who walk the streets; it’s an entirely Eastern custom, one that would have no place in Westeros...

“Sansa,” he begins sharply- she responds with a delay, as always; he still hasn’t been able to break her of that. Her wide blue eyes stare up at him, her little pink tongue wetting her bottom lip. A part of him wishes to let the issue lie and cover that pretty mouth with his- but _no._

“Sansa, what are you doing?” Instinct spurs him to pinch the ring between his fingers and pull- she gasps and whimpers, which he supposes is the intended effect. But his eyes continue to narrow, and his jaw remains firmly in place. 

She laughs and tosses her hair and starts in with, “I’m only play-”

Jaime uses his golden hand to cover her mouth; she winces a bit at the cold of the metal against her skin. He knows that he should tell her to take the ring out at once and give her a stern lecture, but the very idea feels laughable- _who am I to lecture anyone about propriety?_ But it can’t be ignored...

Keeping the gold pressed against her face, Jaime leans in and speaks quietly, “This is bad, Sansa. It is very bad.” His voice drops to a whisper as he uses his left hand to point at the large table a few paces behind him. “Go over there and lean over the table. Palms flat on the top.”

Although he cannot see her mouth, he knows that she’s smiling; they’ve only done this once before, at her request. She’d hinted at her wish to try again, but Jaime could not shake his discomfort- he was sure he’d heard her call him “Father”, and the implications put him off entirely. 

But now, he stands behind her as she leans over, her pert little arse level with his groin. He feels his cock stiffen in his breeches- but no, not yet, this is a _learning experience_. 

He begins with a few light swats, just enough to make her chirp. “Quiet,” he hisses. “Speak only when you’re spoken to, do you understand?”

“Yes, my lord,” she murmurs, her forehead pressed flat to the wooden tabletop.

He hits her harder; he can hear the slap of skin against skin, even through the fabric of her dress. “What is your name?”

“W-what?” she sputters. Another hard smack.

“You heard me. Your name.”

“S-Sansa Stark,” she whispers.

“Louder.”

“Sansa Stark.” He slams the back of his hand over her rear, and she starts to squeal, but bites her lip to hold the sound in.

“Sansa Stark of where?”

“Winterfell. Sansa Stark of Winterfell.”

He makes her repeat it again and again, punctuating each declaration with a slap. Overcome by curiosity, he orders her to pull up her skirts; she wears no smallclothes, and the porcelain white of her arse blushes a pretty pink. _Not enough,_ he thinks. 

Jaime places his hands on either side of hers and leans over until he can whisper in her ear, “That’s right. Sansa Stark of Winterfell. And Sansa Stark of Winterfell is not a Lyseni pleasure slave or an Eastern concubine. We may be here for now, but what do I always say?”

She pauses, and although he cannot see her face, he can _feel_ her frowning. “This isn’t forever.”

He straightens himself up and places his palm on her bare arse. “Say it again.”

She chants the words like a prayer, and he hits her again and again. But with every repetition- _this isn’t forever, this isn’t forever_ \- he finds himself hating the words more and more. He puts more force into the spanking, hoping that the claps will drown out her voice, but he hears it echoing in his brain louder and louder. 

Jaime slips his fingers between Sansa’s legs- Gods, she’s wet as can be. He watches her legs tremble, her shoulders moving up and down as her breath becomes more and more labored; he leans into her again and kisses the nape of her neck, pressing his hips into her reddened backside enough that she can feel his erection through his breeches. She turns her face to the side, and he can see her still mouthing the words- _this isn't forever, this isn't forever_.

He brushes his lips over hers, murmuring into her mouth, “Good girl.” 

It isn’t forever, but in the here and now, she’s what he has and he’s what she has, and as evening descends over Lys, the air thick and sultry, Sansa lying trembling and eager beneath him, Jaime decides that for tonight...for tonight, this will be enough. 


End file.
